


life in the frat lane (on hiatus)

by orphan_account



Category: The Hobbit (Jackson Movies), The Hobbit - All Media Types, The Hobbit - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Alternate Universe - College/University, Alternate Universe - Fraternity, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Badass Bilbo, Crack, M/M, Multi, On Hiatus For Now, all are human, based on bad neighbours, faintly, fairly much crack, fsog ;), i intend to return, slut thorin, the epic prank battle no one asked for but im doing anyway
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-04-11
Updated: 2015-10-20
Packaged: 2018-03-22 08:40:43
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 6,039
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3722428
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>If the question hasn't already been asked, it needs to be:</p><p>What happens when you take the incredibly slutty president of Eta Rho Eta Beta Omega Rho and put him head-to-head with the seemingly angelic yet a hundred percent deadly president of Sigma Rho Eta?</p><p>(The answer to which seems to be an epic battle of the pranks, involving grass murder, butter, pink hair dye and a whole load of glad wrap.)</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. of sluts, presidents, and bad study habits

**Author's Note:**

> This fic is loosely based upon the film Bad Neighbours, which may be known as just Neighbours to anyone within North America. None of the characters belong to the author, only the storyline. It must be said that this is a work of fiction and is mostly crack and not to be taken seriously. Additionally, the author does not recommend putting any of the pranks contained within this story into practise.
> 
> (p.s. bagginshield for life)

**_of sluts, presidents, and bad study habits_ **

* * *

 

It’s 10:30pm on a Saturday night, and the college world is alive. Sorority girls dance on tables and frat boys chug beer, music pounding through the floorboards, disco lights swirling as young people thrum with the joy of life.

And Bilbo Baggins is ten miles from the nearest party, working.

He could’ve been at one, he knew. He’d received enough invitations, from his cousin Prim and his ‘cousin’ Lobelia and his _cousin_ Hamfast, as well as all of the members of Sigma Rho Eta, but he is not making any life-ruining decisions today, thank you very much. Parties are nasty, uncomfortable things that made you late for dinner. And fail tests.

Psych 101 textbooks paper the mahogany of his writing desk, scrunched shreds of paper scattered in, around, and nowhere near the bin. The nightlight is dying and he didn’t have the money to replace it so his glasses are mere inches from the paper as he scribbles; his curls are unbrushed, his maroon sweater crumpled. But his paper is ninety per cent done so he can’t really bring himself to care.

‘Biiiiiiiilbo!’comes a warble from the door. Bilbo lets out a sigh and allows his head to thunk against the table, eyes screwing closed as he prays that Lobelia would do a header and sustain head damage. Nothing too major, just a coma for a few hours and maybe a minor concussion.

‘Bilbo, you missed out, Bilbo! The party was _sooo_ fun!’

No such luck.

His cousin appears in the doorway, black curls a mess around her smeared makeup. She gives him a lopsided grin as she sways dangerously. It’s a stark difference to her usual curt, well-groomed appearance; either way, Bilbo reflects, she is certainly a nuisance. Who goes partying a week before midterms?

‘Bi-ilbo,’ she sings as he leaps to catch her drooping frame, ‘do you know what I found out? Do you?’

‘Er…no,’ he replies, desperately trying to avoid her booze-breath. Lobelia’s a dead weight as he lugs her back to her room; she seems to think that her news is incredibly exciting, judging by the way she croons ‘ _do you, do you, do you_ ’ under her breath all the way down the halls. It’s not until Bilbo drops her unceremoniously on her bed that she reveals the news.

‘Erebor’s moving next door!’ she crows jubilantly, before passing out.

Bilbo freezes with absolute horror.

It can’t be true.

Eta Rho Eta Beta Omega Rho, also known as Erebor, is Arda College’s biggest and most disreputable frat. Flowing to the brim with piggish, undereducated jocks, their parties are notorious all across the city of Middle Earth as the biggest and the loudest of them all.

And they’re moving next door.

_Next door._

‘Fuuuuuuuck,’ Bilbo moans, slamming his head against the wall.

* * *

Thorin Durin is drunk out of his mind, and it’s fantastic. Life, as he has discovered, is a pleasant buzz after six shots of Tequila and an unidentifiable number of beer cans; the mass of revolving bodies around him is little more than a blur, the flashing disco lights combining with the overall darkness to heighten his disorientation even more. The music, too, is ear-breakingly loud, and he isn’t sure whether the dust trickling from the ceiling is a figment of his drunken mind or actually real.

He doesn’t realise that someone’s yelling his name until he’s cuffed around the head. He’s too pissed to care, and as such when he turns to his best friend his face is open instead of in its usual scowl.

‘WHAT?’ he shouts, voice barely audible above Avicii’s synth screaming.

‘I FOUND SOMETHING!’ Dwalin bellows back. He glances around the packed room before grabbing Thorin’s bicep and towing him onto the balcony. The night air is cutting and sharp, the peaceful skies a sharp contrast to the deafening land. There’s a couple of people making out against the railing, who Dwalin unceremoniously shoves back inside before locking the door.

‘Our new house is beside another frat,’ Dwalin says without preamble. His deep voice is even hoarser than usual, roughened by abuse.

Thorin’s eyebrows arch and he struggles to form a coherent thought through the drunken mush that is his brain.

‘Which one?’ he asks, then continues without pause. ‘Please don’t say Eta Phi.’

Eta Phi, aka Elf, is a group of the snootiest, skiving, tossy toffs that Thorin has ever had the (dis)pleasure to meet. Their president, Thranduil Holier-Than-Thou Agar, is the most despised of the lot. Thorin often conveniently forgets their dalliance in Freshman Year, preferring to hate him without bounds.

‘No,’ Dwalin says, and the holy word is quite possibly the most exquisite thing Thorin has ever heard. ‘Some obscure little thing called Sigma Rho Eta.’

‘Shire? I’ve heard of them.’

‘Stuffy nerds, the whole lot. They’ll probably report us.’

‘Huh,’ Thorin mutters. ‘Who’s their president?’

‘Bilbo Baggins.’

A truly evil grin spreads across Thorin’s face and he claps his hands together decisively. ‘Well, we’ll just have to make sure he won’t _want_ to report us.’

Dwalin eyes his expression before rolling his eyes.

‘You, Thorin Durin, are a complete and total slut.’

* * *

Two months later finds Bilbo lounging on his favourite armchair, coffee in one hand, newspaper in the other, his glasses slipping down his pointy nose as he hums contentedly. Prim and Hamfast spread languidly across the paisley-patterned couch like Honour Student butter as Lobelia potters around the kitchen and Drogo polishes his silverware.  It was the puttering of a half-dead engine that signalled the beginning of the end, as well as an undulating cry followed by raucous cheers and a rather loud crash.

Drogo shoots to the windows, peeking through the dainty muslin curtains to study the street outside. Perfectly flat green lawn marred only by a lovely white walkway stretch to the curb, which is completely clean and unblemished; the road is smooth and dark, bordered by impeccably trimmed trees and flower beds. Then there’s the monstrosity of a van spray-painted with all manner of nasty slogans, stuffed to the manky brim with smelly, hairy, muscular frat boys.

‘They’re here,’ Drogo breathes, fear leaching into his words. He blinks once more at the terrible scene outside then promptly sinks to the ground in a dead faint. Stepping over her collapsed boyfriend, Prim studies the van with narrowed eyes and pursed lips; as she watches, a disproportionate number of men pile out of the much too small van. Beer bottles are clutched in hands, grins wide beneath messy hair and odd choices of headwear. One’s wearing a bright pink traffic cone and from what Prim can see that isn’t even the weirdest.

‘Eta Rho Eta Beta Omega Rho,’ she proclaims grimly. Her manicured nails dig into the polished windowsill – though not too deeply, as that would scratch the paintwork.

‘Oh, college will never be the same again,’ Lobelia wails. Hamfast groans in agreement and smothers his own face with an embroidered pillow. ‘We’re doomed!’

‘No, we aren’t,’ Bilbo says calmly, taking a sip of his tea. ‘We are proper, respectable, intelligent members of Shire and we will not allow a band of scruffy dimwits to impede our study. They may move in next door, but we were here first and whatever they throw at us, we will return.’

The others look to Bilbo in awe. For no little reason is he President of Sigma Rho Eta; they had been challenged before, yes, and Bilbo had always fearlessly brought down the opposition wielding only a smile and a handkerchief.

‘Erebor think that we are merely a stuffy little group of nerds,’ he continues, meeting each of his followers’ eyes to impress his point. ‘Well, they have no idea what’s coming to them.’

And they don’t.

* * *

Thorin ducks a flying beer can, avoiding disembowelment by barely half a millimetre. This is much to the chagrin of his nephews, who boo and urge Gloin to throw another one, to which in turn Thorin gives his best presidential stink-eye. Fíli and Kíli snicker and waggle their eyebrows.

‘You must be getting tired there, eh Uncle?’

‘Yeah, Uncle, don’t you want to rest your weary bones?’

 ‘A cup of tea would be nice, wouldn’t it Uncle?’

‘Maybe some Panadol, Uncle?’

‘Shut up,’ Thorin barks. ‘You made an oath when you joined that you would serve frat before blood–’

‘FRAT BEFORE BLOOD!’

‘–and I expect you to follow that rule. We have a house to trash!’

Which is met with a resounding cheer and much fist-pumping. All except Thorin and his second, Dwalin, charge to the house, ready for destruction. He watches his brothers with a fond eye as they disappear into the picturesque mansion, an action which is swiftly followed by crashes, bangs and overall noises of demolition. Beside him, Dwalin folds his arms and nods approvingly.

‘We have a good haul this year,’ Thorin observes as an explosion lights up the third-floor window.

‘Aye,’ Dwalin agrees.

‘It will be epic. I just know it.’

‘Aye.’

‘We’ll get on the Wall of Fame for sure.’

‘Aye.’

‘Wonder if we can get hold of some fireworks,’ Thorin muses. He studies the blue skies appraisingly, then sweeps his eyes over the surrounding houses. Clean, suburban, boring as hell. What’s the point of living without parties? So what if Thorin nearly failed midterms, his family’s rich.

‘Excuse me.’

Contrary to the usual phrasing of such a statement, it was not a question. The two words were filled with a calm sort of ire, one that manages to belittle and yet be polite at the same time. Even as Thorin turns, eyebrows creeping up his brow, he knows that the asker is not one to be messed with.

Which is why, when he is faced with a small man in a maroon sweater and glasses, he smirks. Add to that the fact that he recognises him, and Thorin’s level of amusement is higher than it had been for the entire day.

‘Morning,’ Thorin greets languidly. He’s wearing nothing but a tight black t-shirt and ripped denim trousers that are slung so low on his hips that the red band of his Calvin Kleins are exposed. It is a sight that he knows no woman (or man) can resist, knowledge which is gleaned from experience.

The smaller gives him a polite smile, hazel eyes pointedly never straying from Thorin’s own. An ironed collar peeps out from the neck of his sweater and his beige pants are perfectly creased. The mess that is his hair is conspicuous against the neat background.

‘I am Bilbo Baggins of Sigma Rho Eta, 41 Arda Road. You may have noticed that we’re just next door.’

‘I did.’

‘Well, you may also have noticed that sound travels very easily in this neighbourhood.’

‘I noticed, yes.’

‘And we of Shire take studying very seriously.’

‘I’m fairly sure everyone in Middle Earth knows that.’

‘We take it so seriously, indeed, that if anything or _anyone_ gets in the way, they may find themselves…troubled.’

Thorin’s eyebrows are now in danger of disappearing into his black hair and his smirk is positively lecherous.

‘What sort of trouble?’

The smaller gives him a smile which exposes dimples and a whole load of violence.

‘The sort which you don’t want to be in, but I’m sure if you keep it down you won’t have anything to worry about.’

Thorin can feel Dwalin raising his eyebrows from beside him.

‘You gonna report us, Shire?’ he grunts.

‘Now why would I do that?’ the president of Sigma Rho Eta asks sweetly. ‘There are so many more fun options.’

He gives one more parting smile that doesn’t reach his cold brown eyes and sashays back to 41 Arda Road, thick study textbooks clutched beneath one sweater-clad arm.

‘Well then,’ Thorin says. ‘This should be interesting.’

 Dwalin takes one look at the smirk on his President’s face and rolls his eyes.

‘I stand by what I said.’

‘What, he’s gonna report us?’

‘No. You’re a slut.’

Thorin barks out a laugh, not making a sound to deny it.

* * *

The first incidence of head-butting between the two fraternities, surprisingly, does not occur until a week later. Though Bilbo does not understand the reasoning behind this he is eternally grateful; it had been exam week after all. He's sure that Erebor’s silence was not due to their studying – he doesn’t think any of them can even read, after all.

In the seven days leading up to The Incident there is the occasional crash and a few explosions, but nothing to warrant true Shire rage. However, the party Eta Rho Eta Beta Omega Rho throws on Friday the Thirteenth is the proverbial tipping point; ten hours past midday sees Bilbo and his posse steaming down the street, textbooks beneath arms, curly heads shaking with emotion. Or perhaps the shaking is caused by the bass notes positively _blasting_ through the air and equalling a Category Five earthquake on the Richter scale.

Dwalin watches the Shirelings bulldoze through the shin-deep coating of crushed beer cans on the lawn and, for the first time in his life, feels the tiny nigglings of what might be called an ounce of anxiety. Thorin’s expression from where he leans casually beside him speaks only of a wolfish sort of anticipation. Then again, he had consumed an uncountable amount of Liquid Courage.

Or perhaps he’s just an idiot.

‘Ready to face the beast?’ Dwalin asks gruffly. Thorin looks to him in vague surprise; it is quite possibly the longest sentence his friend has ever uttered without prompt.

‘I can’t guarantee your safety, and I won’t be responsible for your fate,’ he warns.

‘Whatever,’ Dwalin snorts. ‘Let’s go kick some ass.’

* * *

It must be said that not much ass-kicking occurred that night, whether physical or metaphorical. And if it was said to be done it was most definitely _not_ done by any members of Erebor.

When Thorin Durin pulled open 40 Arda Road’s previously respectable glass double doors, even Bilbo found it hard to prevent any straying of the eyes. An inner battle which, of course, was not evidenced by his facial muscles in any way. They remained in a setting of cool disdain, which is harder than it sounds when faced with a certain fraternity president – especially when said fraternity president is ignobly attractive, and _especially_ when said fraternity president is wearing no shirt.

Thorin gives a wide grin, exposing a row of pure-white teeth, and Lobelia makes a sound rather similar to a mouse being stomped on. Bilbo makes sure to glare especially frostily to cover up this mistake, jerking his mouth into a cute smile while promising a painful death with his eyes.

‘Good evening,’ he says pleasantly.

‘Evening,’ Thorin replies in kind, leaning his muscular body against the doorframe as he folds his arms. The smaller man is forced to clear his throat rather loudly to hide Lobelia’s second squeak.

On second thoughts, it hadn’t really sounded like Lobelia…

Bilbo forcefully turns his thoughts from questioning Hamfast’s sexuality to the problem presented before him. The tall, dark-haired problem which is now smirking unashamedly, seemingly imperious to the sound pouring over his uncovered shoulders like a wave of future deafness. Tilting his head angelically, Bilbo endeavours to ignore the naked chest at his eye level, a task made infinitely easier by the simple action of reminding himself exactly who said chest belongs to.

‘Do you remember our conversation from last Friday, _Master_ Durin?’ he begins, in fact truly wondering whether the brain-dead frat leader could remember events from so far ago. Alcohol is said to destroy the memory, and Bilbo is fairly sure that Durin’s _blood_ is alcohol by this point.

‘Actually, I do. If memory serves you gave a great deal of barely concealed threats and promised an equally great deal of pain were we to irritate you.’

Thorin arches a dark eyebrow as Bilbo smiles dreamily, wrapped in contented contemplation.

‘That indeed sounds like me,’ the small, golden-haired man says happily. He looks an inch from clapping his hands together; Thorin almost questions how one so adorably can be so evil, then catches the sharpness remaining in the others eye. Adorable he may be, but this one more likely scraped his knees crawling from hell than he did falling from heaven.

‘So, if you indeed remember, it must be asked why you have so clearly violated my terms?’

‘Well,’ Thorin begins languidly, ‘perhaps you have faced off other fraternities before, and perhaps you have even won, but I’ll think you’ll find that Erebor is on a completely different level.’

One of Bilbo’s entourage snorts – the dark-haired woman, with a face sharper than a Kick In The Balls.

‘A level of stupidity, yes,’ she mutters. Her beady eyes dare Thorin to argue; as it turns out, he doesn’t need to.

‘And what have you accomplished that makes you Einstein?’ comes a derisive question from over his shoulder. Thorin doesn’t even have to look to know that Fíli is standing behind him; his nephew’s witty comebacks are a constant source of pride for him, as well as boost for his ego – he maintains that he taught Fíli everything he knows, and tries to forget about his other nephew, who is currently chugging vodka on the kitchen counter.

Pointyface’s lips purse like she’d encountered a particularly poignant Amaretto Sour, and Thorin reaches back for a fist-bump. As he turns back he could of sworn, for the merest fraction of a second, that he saw a grin – an honest-to-god  _grin_ – of _amusement -_  on Bilbo Baggins’s face. But then the sight disappears, to be replaced with the customary evil angelicy.

‘So you refuse to back down?’

Thorin’s eyes hood over and for the first time his languid expression hints at something deeper, more vicious, more…dangerous. The heat which ignites in Bilbo’s chest whenever he thinks back to that expression is _of course_ anger and nothing else. Nothing else at all.

‘I do indeed.’

Bilbo smiles, the same smile which toddlers have been seen to wear while concocting a particularly vicious plan.

‘Then let the games begin.’

 

 


	2. pretty in pink

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The first salvo in what will soon become a war, involving many of the things and Thorin blushing

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I actually cannot believe that it took me six months to get my act together.  
> Super-short chapter but the next few will be longer, and each focusing on one specific 'prank'.  
> I am setting the posting date for Sundays. Hopefully every Sunday. Hopefully.
> 
> enjoy :)

_**pretty in pink** _

* * *

 

 The first few pranks in what was soon to evolve into a full-out battle were merely that: pranks. (As compared to what will come later, which can hardly be defined as such). The skirmish begins on a certain Sunday morning, which will later come to be known as _Pink Day_ by any and all who will study the historic battle.

Thorin Durin wakes with a groan. Even he, the fabled King Under The Brewery, gets a hangover from twenty-five Bloody Marys in one sitting. Perhaps not the healthiest of pursuits, but Thorin is young, rich and quite frankly a bit lacking in the foresight department. Staring blearily about the lounge (which has come to more resemble a war zone – an appropriate metaphor, given the situation) he wonders where on earth all twelve other members of his fraternity have disappeared to. Despite the rather atrocious headache pounding in his head that would have felled lesser beings, i.e. a pack of robust bull elephants, Thorin staggers to his feet. Wobbling like a newborn deer he winds his way past abandoned beer cups, wine glasses and sticks of dynamite. Only briefly does he wonder as to the latter, before dismissing it from his mind as one of Fíli and Kíli’s tamer escapades.

When Thorin reaches the bathroom he does not even pause to glance in the mirror as, being unashamedly narcissistic, he usually does; he merely runs the faucet, splashing his face with water.

He is more than a little confused when he sees that the reflective porcelain basin is showing a sickly shade of pink.

He is even more confused when he sees that his hands are stained with pink.

His confusion peaks as he catches his reflection in the mirror and sees that _his hair is pink_.

It is in the midst of his stunned silence that he catches a tuneful chorus of screams from the second bathroom, drifting on the smug breeze.

* * *

Bilbo is reclining against the trunk of a massive oak tree, the dappled shade splashing across his corded cream sweater and in turn both darkening and setting alight the honey curls of his hair. Through his delicate glasses his hazel eyes skim the words of the book, highly advertised by old Disney skits, yet by many not believed to exist, ‘How To Kill.’ The grass is green, the evening sky is pink, and so is Thorin Durin’s hair as he storms across the manicured lawn.

Taking in a deep breath, Bilbo endeavours to hide his hilarity; an endeavour unfortunately belied by the shakiness to said breath and the tears welling in his eyes. He bites his lip, not completely able to hide a muffled snigger as Thorin towers over him.

‘What the hell is this?’ Thorin barks, pointing to his once-dark hair which is now a lovely shade of carnation.

‘I was merely bringing out your true colours,’ Bilbo says sweetly. ‘I just _knew_ that pink would suit you.’

He gives the taller president an angelic smile as sniggers drift from the nearby window. Thorin promptly turns the same colour as his hair, and Bilbo is forced to remind himself exactly who this man is. Over his D-marked papers will he let himself think of Thorin Durin as cute.

‘I’ll get you back for this, Baggins,’ said Durin promises, desperately trying to regain his dignity as he equally desperately tries to ignore the way in which Bilbo’s hair turns the gold of single-malt whiskey in the sunlight.

‘Please, go ahead,’ Bilbo replies with an unsettling sort of graciousness.

Thorin growls and whirls around to storm back. Pausing, he stops to glare at the smaller president.

The smaller president reads his book innocently.

Thorin turns and stomps away, this time ignoring the uncontrollable cackling emanating from the distinguished leader of Sigma Rho Eta.

* * *

It is, this time, a Wednesday when the returning missile is launched; a date which also ensnared an equally fearful and awe-inspiring nickname, that of _The Day All Pastures Dread_. It is a date forever destined to be a black mark on the refined ledger of Shire Fraternity, as well as a day of horror in the personal diary of one Bilbo Baggins, who is currently unaware of the unimaginable terror in his future as he ambles down the darkened Arda Road. The five massive encyclopaedias ensconced within his bag rustle as he makes his way down the immaculate concrete, the sound like music to his oddly pointed ears.

Bilbo allows a peaceful smile to soften his features. His mood is unusually calm; today he had concocted the perfect Earl Grey, he’d received an A++ on his Psychology paper, and it had only been three days ago that he had achieved the weighty honour of making nine hardened, scarred, hairy frat boys cry like little girls. Additionally, the majority of his victims have not yet succeeded in dying their hair back to their normal shades, resulting in seventy-two hours of stares, muffled whispers, and fellow students wondering if the lakes of alcohol Erebor Fraternity consume have finally succeeded in melting the final few brain cells which still cling grimly on.

Beset by a sudden and mysterious uncontrollable sniggering, Bilbo turns onto the smooth path leading to number 41.

He stops.

For one instant he believes that he has the wrong house; yet after a second, as it always does, reality sets in with the horrified speed of a student cramming. This is indeed the correct house. Which means that the lawn, sprayed with grass killer to spell out three two-metre-high words, is the very same lawn which he had once painstakingly trimmed for over six hours with nothing more than nail clippers.

Bilbo stares, dumbfounded, as I <3 THORIN glitters beneath the waxing moon.

* * *

It is one o’clock am when Thorin receives the call which he has been expecting. When he picks up the receiver he is greeted by a quite impressive screech, which has him grinning as he is abruptly violently scolded by a certain diminutive fraternity president.

‘GRASS MURDER, THORIN?’ Bilbo shrieks. ‘YOU HAVE CROSSED A LINE! WHAT EXACTLY DO YOU HAVE TO SAY FOR YOURSELF, HUH?’

Thorin, uncharacteristically, does not reply straight away, instead hung up on Bilbo’s use of his first name – a state which he aggressively shakes himself out of.

‘My apologies,’ he says, entirely unrepentantly. ‘We were transporting some weed killer to deal with a certain grass patch, and my hand _just so happened_ to slip as I was walking. I am so _terribly_ sorry.’

His shit-eating grin, though hidden, somehow manages to translate to the person on the other end of the line. Bilbo clenches his fist until his knuckles turned white, curly hair shaking with emotion.

‘Oh, you _will_ be,’ he hisses, words sounding like a demonic pledge. ‘ _You will be sorry_.’

* * *

Twenty-one days pass before the awful scar upon Sigma Rho Eta’s once-exquisite lawn fades, the wilted grass having been replaced with new seeds. (For most mere mortals, only stubble would be visible after the same time period, but Bilbo and his fellow Shirelings are anything but ‘mere,’ and even ‘mortal’ would be put into question when witnessing their almost disturbing level of unceasing determination). Every member of Eta Rho Eta Beta Omega Rho has likewise managed to reclaim their natural hair colour (though it is still rather tinged with a plethora of feminine shades) and most of Erebor will admit – though not out loud – that they are glad for Shire’s silence.

A silence which is soon to be broken, in direct tandem with aforementioned escalation from ‘pranks’ to something entirely...different.

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Feedback is great. Also maybe a beta. Or even someone to occasionally scream at me to get my act together.  
> Thanks for reading :)
> 
> gotta love me some bagginshield


	3. 50 shades of annoyed frat boys

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> ;)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> oh my god guys i actually stuck to the date oh my god what is this????
> 
> I am honestly overwhelmed by the reaction to this, holy shit. Thank you so much.
> 
> this chapter is really bad but enjoy anyways :)

Thorin’s hair is almost indecently rumpled as he stares through the windshield at the darkened road winding before him, its state not helped by the hand currently messing through it. When he catches the agonized state of his blue eyes in the rearview mirror, he lets out an undignified sound somewhere between a sigh, a groan and a muffled scream of exasperation. Unfortunately he has forgotten the rather fascinated audience currently sitting to his left, a certain brown-eyed hook-nosed audience who somehow manages to have white hair at the age of twenty-one.

‘Something the matter, laddie?’ asks Balin, disturbingly civil. Thorin does not have to look to see the gleam in his eyes; as it is he merely intensifies his glare and thanks whoever the hell is above that the other members of his frat are too busy playing death-beer-pong and singing Hit Me Baby One More Time strangely pleasantly in the back of the Erebor-claimed bus to notice his state.

‘No,’ Thorin replies. His lie is blatant and he barely even bothers to be surprised when Balin sees right through it like he sees cheap vodka.

Thorin has learned long ago never to mess with Balin’s vodka. Or rum. Or whiskey. Or any of the thousands of hard liquors he hoards like a passive-aggressive squirrel who can also be very _aggressive_ -aggressive when he so chooses.

The student in question smiles indulgently, irresistibly reminding Thorin of a certain meddling Dean with nosy tendencies and an eyebrow issue.

‘Couldn’t be anything to do with your recent lack of conquests, could it?’

‘No,’ he snaps more loudly over the croons of _‘baby, baby.’_

His irritation is absolutely _nothing_ to do with the fact that he has not had any action in months and even more _nothing_ to do with the fact that he is not really interested in anyone anymore, male or female, and most _nothing_ to do with the fact that the one exception to aforementioned rule is a certain diminutive fraternity president named Bilbo Baggins –

Balin eyes the spot on the windshield where Thorin has decided to affix his scowl and wonders whether the smoke curling from the toughened glass is actually real. If so, he will be sure to correct the commonly-held belief that it is impossible to melt objects with a mere look.

‘As you say,’ he agrees, beginning to be worried about the state of the car. He is quite sure that he has heard a few metallic screeches from the acceleration pedal and is disturbingly certain that the steering wheel is _groaning_ between Thorin’s white-knuckled grip.

This is the moment that the eleven other frat members decided to increase the volume of their singing.

Balin is not sure what was more surprising, the calm Dori’s top-volume warbling or the until-now-assumed-to-be-straight Kíli’s eyelash fluttering or Dwalin’s hips evidently trying to escape from the rest of his body.

_‘I must confess, that my loneliness is killing me now_

_Don't you know I still believe_

_That you will be here_

_And give me a sign_

_Hit me baby one more time!’_

The song ends with a communal roar of laughter and some scattered applause. For some reason they then move on to Hot N Cold by Katy Perry, much to Thorin’s fury. Balin is not entirely sure why the tune bothers his president to such an astonishing degree, but the Volkswagen Gollum does not seem to appreciate his sudden muscle spasm and swerves to the side of the road with an angry choking noise.

Thorin does not seem to sad about this as the frat members smash into the windows like they are the fiancées they have not seen for twelve years and the singing is abruptly cut off.

‘Sorry,’ he says unrepentantly.

There is a bit of grumbling as his brothers unsucker themselves from the windows, but within minutes they have moved on to Come & Get It by Selena Gomez. Balin is legitimately surprised by how amazingly decent they actually sound, while Thorin heaves an intrinsically deep sigh, speaking of uncountable years of dealing with the undoubtedly surprising… _traits…_ of a certain eleven organisms of the (mostly) male disposition.

‘Turn on the radio, for Mahal’s sake,’ he says.

Only seven words.

Seven words which will later come to be known as those which initiated the apocalypse.

 

* * *

 

The not-so-peaceful echoes of the ear-shattering song drift down the winding country road, until the wave of cacophonous din (mixed in with the inexplicable sounds of engine revvings and hamster chattering) wash over a sleek McLaren 650 LT with the numperplate ‘B4G3ND.’

Able to discern every tiny sound with the superior hearing which can only be sourced from never having listened to anything other than classical music for an entire lifetime, Bilbo Baggins taps his fingers together in a villainous wave.

‘Let it begin,’ says he.

 

* * *

 

It is five minutes later and a change from the previous track; said transition having been almost inaudible, seeing as it had changed from “ _Shrieking Death Metal_ ” by That Band With No Tonal Skills Or Hearing Left Over to “ _Slightly Different Shrieking Death Metal_ ” by That Other Band With No Tonal Skills and Even Less Hearing Left Over. This one also includes the various noises of a plethora of farm animals, for some reason.

Thorin taps his finger against the wheel in time to the beat, his mood slightly softened despite himself; he has at last managed to banish the image of golden whiskey-curls to the back of his mind, and banned any future images which may or may not appear. Beside him Balin is reading the latest issue of National Liquor News, ignoring the noises emanating from their brothers behind.

The clock on the dash blinks to two-fifty-nine a.m.

Ten young males strut around the bus and flap their arms, making chicken noises.

Bifur burrows beneath the one remaining seat, snuffling and muttering about napalm.

Confetti explodes from every vent in the bus, turning the interior into a snowstorm the colour of freshly spilt blood.

There is an appropriately dead silence (broken only by the sounds of, for some inexplicable reason, angry mooing from the radio) as the thirteen Ereborians stare at one another through fluttering scraps of red.

Thirty metres behind, inside a red Lamborghini with the numberplate ‘5P00N5’, Hamfast turns away from the road with a look on his face akin to being hit over the head with a rather sizeable object.

‘Lobelia, why are they… _red_?’ he says (read: squeaks), his brown eyes almost impossibly wide.

His companion, her black curls hidden beneath a black beanie, her eyes by a pair of oddly high-tech binoculars, beings to laugh. It starts off as a tiny, almost imperceptible sound, before quickly escalating through ‘giggle to ‘chuckle’ to ‘full on evil-ass laugh’.

Hamfast feels a distinct shiver of dread run down his spine, melting said appendage effectively as his survival instincts scream at him.

‘RUN!’ they plead. ‘RUN FOR THE HILLS!’

His instincts have never gone so into detail before. Hamfast would have obeyed him, but Lobelia would have caught him long before he even reached for the car handle; so, he merely shivers and thanks his lucky stars that he is on Lobelia’s side.

 

* * *

 

The first hint which the twelve frat boys who are not beneath chairs receive as to their impending doom is a cough. Not a loud cough, or a hacking cough, or even a I’m-dying-of-pneumonia cough; no, it is merely a tiny noise, made at the back of a throat which is all too pleased with itself. Nevertheless in the pin-drop silence every single ear hears it, and every face turns towards the blood-red, five-thousand-dollar speaker system plastered to the rear of the bus. Thorin has long since stopped the van, hoping that some unsuspecting bat-blind commuter will not slam into their back and turn them all to frat boy mush.

‘Good afternoon, gentlemen,’ says the speaker primly, a distinct edge of sadistic enjoyment charging every syllable.

Thorin’s face pales abruptly, as if he had spent a hundred years without leaving his closet – for he could recognise that voice anywhere, and it is not a voice one wants to hear, especially not when trapped inside a rather contrary van in the middle of nowhere.

‘Now, seeing as you declined my very gracious offer and continued to pull rather pathetic pranks upon us, I have as such decided to make the first move in what will hitherto go down in history as the biggest smackdown since last year’s Wimbledon.’

The only sound is Ori’s muffled whisper of ‘ _what’s wibbledoor_.’

‘I am sure you are just raring to see what I have in store for you, so off I go.’

Again, the little smug cough rings through the cramped space.

‘ _Fifty Shades of Grey_ , by E.L. James: an audiobook. Chapter One _. I scowl with frustration at myself in the mirror. Damn my hair – it just won’t behave…_ ’

A cacophony of horrified screeches drift like pleasant music on the wind to the ears of the waiting Shirelings, causing eerily similar dark smiles to stretch all faces.

‘I cannot wait to see what happens when they try to turn it down…’

 

* * *

 

 

As it subsequently comes to light, any attempts at turning the volume down result in nothing but increase in decibels (until the foundations of the bus vibrate with Bilbo’s smug tones) and pressing the off button (desperately) only leads to the track skipping to the best (read: most scarring) sections of the audiobook.

Eventually Erebor turns to bodily throwing the radio out the window, three hours, three gallons of tears, three thousand increasingly atrocious cuss words, and thirteen permanently scarred frat boys later.

Bilbo smiles contentedly, hazel eyes fixed on the spot where Thorin Durin has finally managed to pry open the bus door and stagger out in a now-familiar sight.

‘Your move,’ he says delicately, studiously ignoring the soft winged creature which has evidently been let loose in his stomach.

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ugh
> 
> I would really love a beta, I am actually not sure if I would be able to finish this without one, so if you or someone you know would be willing to help out PLEASE contact me! I am more desperate than Thorin faced with pink hair dye, if you can't tell.
> 
> Thank you for reading this far. Comments/feedback/criticisms/ideas/pairings super appreciated. I am sort of toying with stuff like fili/hamfast and dwalin/lobelia and I am super attached to prim/dis right now I do not really know why so opinions are great! I sort of do have a sequel in mind involving our favourite ladies so that might affect the ships I choose, but I'm not even sure about that so. Also anything you would like me to include, i.e. pranks, jokes, funny lines/dialogue etc. Also feedback on characterisation.
> 
> Yes! A beta! A beta would be great :) 
> 
> Then I wouldn't have to overload you guys with end notes XD
> 
> Anyways thank you guys so muchh!!!!!!!!!!!! luv u xx 
> 
> (I will come back to edit this tomorrow I am just a little sleep-deprived ok please forgive me)
> 
> Update: I have a beta and she is AWESOME :D


	4. Update

Hello everyone

I am extremely sorry to inform you that this fic will be going on TEMPORARY hiatus. This is merely because I have a lot of things in my life right now which don't make me feel like writing crack. Hopefully I will return to it soon, maybe in the summer holidays (which are close over here) or something.

Thank you so much for supporting this fic up till here, it has made me really happy. Sorry again for being inconsistent.

Rematz :)


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